


documentation

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Depression, Diary/Journal, Dreams and Nightmares, Epistolary, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Therapy, Timeline What Timeline, coming out (to oneself)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 13:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Wilson has a therapy assignment.





	documentation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Private Diary Of Dr. James Wilson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842802) by [mkblackwoods (nerdybumblebee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdybumblebee/pseuds/mkblackwoods). 



> for genprompt-bingo - mental health issues and trope-bingo - epistolary.
> 
> this is an experimental thing. i'm not too sure i did the diary format any justice but. [waves hands around]
> 
> inspired by my friend bee's diaryfic.
> 
> enjoy!

This is just a therapy assignment, but I can’t help but feel like I’m a middle school girl right now. I might do just today and tomorrow and then give up, I’ll see as it goes.

Today was okay. The usual. House bothered me, I talked with Cuddy, I talked with my patients. It’s how it goes. The empty feeling in my chest is still there, as it will be until my antidepressants kick in. My therapist tells me not to worry about it, to not be anxious. I just want to feel good, not just fine. It’s either just-fine or angry or upset. I want to be happy again.

If I had to blame my depression on someone, it’d be on House. Of course. Who else causes misery in my life? It’s just him. He’s the only person I ever argue with. The only person I’m ever angry at. But I can’t let myself pull away from him, I’m not too sure why.

Bonnie used to ask me if I was sure that nothing was going on with me and House. Back when we were married she asked that a lot— she never quite asked what she wanted to ask, but I knew. It was revolting, to think of that. I reassured her I’m straight, that I loved her, that House was a sort-of friend and little more. That he was an annoyance. 

But she didn’t listen. She divorced me because of House. If I wasn’t friends with him maybe I wouldn’t be thrice divorced. Just once, maybe. I don’t like to think about how better my life would be if I wasn’t anywhere near House.

But I can’t pull away. It’s like gravity, after so many years- at least that’s what I like to tell myself.

I’m going to take my meds and sleep, now. I guess I’ll write more tomorrow.

*

House drives me crazy, sometimes.

I just want to… I don’t know. I want to hit him, sometimes. I want to scream at him. I want to punch him and show him why no one enjoys his company but me. And even that is dubious. Sometimes, life is better with him, but then the gut-punch of a reminder that he’s a terrible, terrible man comes flinging back at me. And I’m stewing in misery again, as much as I try and stop it. 

I want House to be okay, but it’s so easy to enable him. To write his prescriptions. To tease and laugh about his addiction as if it is nothing serious, as if it is nothing life-threatening, career-ruining. When he came to me tonight with a request for another prescription, he was leaning over my desk. I wrote the prescription, his hand almost brushing against mine.

He thanked me, which was already weird for House. His fingertips brushed against mine as he grabbed the paper.  ~~ His hands were so warm. ~~

I can’t quite sleep right now. I don’t know why. I’m sweaty and tired and exhausted but I can’t sleep.  ~~ I keep thinking about House’s hands. ~~

~~ I’m not showing this to my therapist.  ~~

*

It’s four in the morning and I had one of those dreams again.

They’re excruciating and it is perhaps the sixth time this nightmare happens. How everyone is staring me down, how everyone can sense something out of me I can’t quite grasp, how there’s something disgusting about my existence. Perhaps the worst part is how I never quite make out what it is - what’s so horrific about me? What disgusts them, what makes me feel like I’m choking, like I’m asphyxiating?

I’ve talked about my therapist about this nightmare before. She had been understanding, that small smile of hers that was far too pitying, like  _ oh, you’ll get it when you’re older, honey, I used to feel just like that. _ But I’m already older. I should know whatever is happening in my brain by now.

My therapist is a nice lady. She has a buzzcut, tattoos all over her arms, and she is perhaps the only person in the world who  _ gets  _ me. Maybe I can include Cuddy in that disgustingly short list. I don’t know. But I know nobody else does. Maybe at some point, maybe if we talked, maybe Danny would get me. He’s also sick in the head, but to a much bigger degree. He would understand. I miss him.

I’ll try and go back to sleep now.

*

I understand what the dream was about now.

The situation that made me realize what it was about wasn’t funny, not particularly, nor enlightening. It was just… a situation. An awkward one, perhaps. House was playing along to a man believing we were a couple. And then someone nearby scowled, mumbled a word I know like the back of my hand. I can’t even write it out. You know which one I mean, anyway, Nikki.

But I understand the dreams now. The nightmares. They started two years ago, when I had my divorce with Julia. When I started getting closer to House. My subconscious was shouting and practically screaming its head off at me, but I plugged my ears. I didn’t want to listen. I still dont wan’t to listen.

I can’t write out what I think it has to be. What it must be, after all, after everything. I’ve lied too long. At least I’m admitting that much.

*

I’m gay.

I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay I’m GAY I’M GAY i’m gay im gay im gay

god. fuck. i fucking hate that word. 

But I feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life.

i’m gay. i’m g _ ay _

Oh God. I don’t know if you’ll notice, Nikki, but I cried a little after writing that - stained the pages and everything. I’m sure you understand. You and your wife must understand how this all feels. Although you realized not when you were pushing forty. But still, same thing, different time.

I think I’m done with this project now. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to realize this much, I guess.


End file.
